When I tell you that I recognized the model of gun, you should know that it is not because of any historical or cultural significance on its part (such as the venerable Colt 1911 or the omnipresent Glock). I know these things when I see them because of the burning passionate hatred I feel toward that particular brand and everything that they produce. I cannot directly state the name of the manufacturer, as then they could try and come after me for defamation.

Just know that it is most certainly among the worst handguns to have ever been produced since the inception of the firearm. I would go so far as to say that they are undeserving of the classification, if not for federal law that defines them.

No, before you ask, I am not talking about Hi-Points. While they might be ugly as sin and bulky as a cinder block, they at least go bang when you need them to. On top of that their customer support is pretty much second to none in the industry when it comes to repairs. I dare say that they do not care what you did to that gun, they will fix it or replace it. And I’ve seen people do some pretty egregious things to their Hi-Points.

If you were to inform me that a grizzly bear had lost its mind and was on its way to maul me (for whatever reason, let's assume I insulted its mother), and to defend myself I had to choose between a sharpened stick or one of these handguns, then I’d pick the stick eleven times out of ten and twice on Sundays. The stick, at the very least, would allow me to get a few painful jabs in at the bear’s eyes before it broke and I could die having said that I put up a fight.

With one of these guns? Shit, I’d be lucky if the mag stayed seated inside the gun long enough to load the first round. If it actually fired after that, then I’d be surprised. A second round after that would be considered an anomaly, and I’d want to buy a lottery ticket before the bear tore my throat out. They had exactly one thing going for them that kept the company afloat this long, and that was the simple fact that they were cheaper than just about every other option on the market, and they are available in pretty colors that appeal to first-time female buyers.

In my experience as a firearm salesman, I found that this gun was bought by individuals that could be separated into two distinct groups.

Group number one consisted of the unfortunate people who had absolutely zero prior knowledge of firearms. These folk had never owned a gun in their life. Some of them had never held a gun, or were downright opposed to their existence. What usually happens is they get spooked by either current events or a close-encounter and finally decide to rush to the gun store and buy the cheapest thing that they could get their hands on.

They would often come back later to complain about it when it started falling apart the first time they actually took it to the range to test-fire it, if they test-fired at all. As I always told them, “this is something that you will be trusting your life and your family’s lives with, do you really want to go with the lowest bidder?”

I did my damndest to get these people to buy literally anything else. I cannot begin to count just how many hours I have spent trying to explain to them that this was the worst option that they could have ever picked. If they still chose to make that awful mistake, then I would go ahead and grab the standard Form 4473 and let them fill it out to purchase. At that point it was entirely on them and off my conscious.

Then there was group number two. This was composed of people who bought these guns with the singular aim to use them in a crime of some sort and then later dispose of them. They were a cheap, disposable, murder gun (assuming that the thing would actually fire when they pulled the trigger in commission of some criminal act, oftentimes the gun wouldn’t function). If I had a dollar for every time a shady dude tried to buy one and got shut down by denial or us kicking them out, I could retire early. If I had a quarter for every time that same dude sat outside in a car while he sent in his baby-mama to buy it on his behalf, then I could afford a mansion and a nice bar.

My very own mother bought one, without stopping to ask me for my input ahead of time. She had just moved to St. Louis during a time when riots were frequent. She got spooked, and bought the cheapest purple colored gun she could find. Then she promptly left it in its box and sat it at the bottom of her closet for a year and a half. My mom didn’t even buy any ammo for the damn thing. I asked her once what she planned to do if someone broke into her house.

“I have a gun!” she said.

“And what? Are you just gonna throw it at them? Or are you gonna ask them to sit and wait patiently while you run to the store and buy ammo?”

After months of me constantly pestering her about it, she finally took it to the range for the first time. The thing that finally convinced her was when I said “the first time that you fire that gun, should not be the first time that you have to.”

She agreed to go along with a family friend and their daughter since they lived decently close to her. My mother only fired two rounds out of it. Exactly two rounds. This is because when she pulled the trigger for a third time the gun never went off again. Turns out that the firing pin had snapped right in half. Now, you might say that “oh, every gun manufacturer has a few bad apples that sneak through quality control”. Yeah, you’d usually be right there. In this case though, she sent it back to the company on warranty to get it fixed. They sent it back to her two months later. She took it to the range again.

The firing pin broke again.

I can only imagine, with a lot of anger, what might have happened had she needed to use the thing to defend herself with. Assuming that she had actually bought ammo and loaded the thing, and knowing how bad her aim is, she would’ve put one round in the floor and then a round in the wall. Round number three would have never happened.

After getting it fixed for a second time she ended up taking it to a nearby pawnshop and sold it for fifty bucks. Then she went and bought herself a Smith and Wesson Shield EZ instead. In the many times that either of us have shot it, that gun has never failed us.

I might have gotten distracted there, but please understand my rage against these handguns.

The robber was standing with his back to me, his focus solely on the cashier. He didn’t seem to notice as I slowly approached from behind with a two liter of orange soda in my hand. The cashier had both of his hands occupied with trying to get the register open. He “dropped” the key and ducked down, and I heard a very faint click. That was likely the sound of him pushing the silent alarm. I doubt the robber noticed it. The cashier stood back up and fumbled about getting the key into the register.

The robber had a black ski-mask covering his face. I couldn’t see any of his facial details, but from where I was standing behind him I could clearly see the perspiration dripping down the back of his neck. The guy was sweating like a pig, and shaking. I couldn’t tell at the moment whether it was from excitement, the adrenaline rush from the crime, or from agitation that the cashier was taking so long. Maybe it was drug withdrawal. Either way, I could hear his heart pounding away like a drum. His grip on the gun was trembling.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Wait. What the hell was that on his hand?

When I was further away, I had first thought that he was wearing some sort of reflective gray glove. Now that I was close enough to take a better look, I could see that it was actually just duct tape. He had it wrapped around his wrist, up around his hand, and then bound around his index and middle fingers like a trailer park cast. He was holding the grip of the gun with his pinky and ring fingers.

Two things occurred to me then.

First thing, it was going to be damn near impossible for him to actually pull the trigger like that. His two taped up fingers would never fit inside the trigger guard. Two, now that I was looking a bit closer at the gun, at the dirt and scuffs on it, I realized that I recognized it even more than I thought.

I had, after all, ripped it out of Johnny the Dumbass’s hand before chucking it across the scrapyard.

At that very moment I had two options available to me. I could very easily walk right out that door, and I would probably get outside and into my car before he even realized I had been there. It would be, physically, very easy to just leave the cashier there to get robbed.

It would also be extremely easy to take this guy down.

I really hate making decisions like t—

Quite suddenly I was sitting at my kitchen table. My cup of gin was sitting in front of me. In my hand was a bottle of orange soda which I had been pouring into the cup. In a moment of shock my hand let go and it dropped to the table. Soda began spilling everywhere.

“Fuck!”

For a second I forgot the fact that I had just lost an unknown amount of time and rushed to pick up the bottle to prevent further leaking. Then I ran to grab the paper towels. It wasn’t until I was dabbing up the pool of soda on the table that I noticed the blood all over my right hand.

I did a quick check over myself, I wasn’t the one who had been bleeding. This wasn’t my blood.

What the fuck had happened?

I finally checked my phone to find it was 10:30pm. I left my house around 9:10pm. I got to the gas station at maybe 9:15pm. I was there for maybe three minutes before Asshat Johnny showed up.

Where had the last hour gone?

I tossed the soaked paper towels into the trash and went right to the sink to wash the blood from my hand. While I was drying them off my phone dinged. There was movement detected in my front yard. I brought the camera feed up and saw that there was a police cruiser in my driveway. My own car was not. Where the hell was it?

Two officers were walking up toward my porch.

It occurred to me that I should check my pistol before I met them at the door. My Shield was still tucked into my pants, the chamber was still loaded, the mag was still full. Based on the cleanliness of the feed ramp and the smell, I hadn’t fired it since the last time I’d cleaned it.

One of the officers knocked on the door, so I laid the gun on the counter and went to greet them. When I opened the door they both warily stepped back, but their hands didn’t reach for their guns. This was off to a good start.

“Can I help you officers?”

“Good evening, Mister Rogers? I am Officer Maplewood, STPD, this is Officer Franks”

The one taking the lead, Maplewood, motioned to his partner. I actually knew both of them, well, I had met them before I should say. They had both been at my house just a few days ago when they responded to my call that there was a wild animal in my house (dead goblins).

“We are here tonight because your vehicle was located parked outside the scene of an attempted robbery.”

So that’s where my car was. Right where I had parked it.

“Uh huh…”

“Look, we’re not here to arrest you, but our Chief does want us to bring you in to answer some questions.”

“And if I say no?”

“Like I said, we’re not here to arrest you. I’ve seen the camera feed already, and personally I think you did a good thing back there. If you would cooperate, it would make my paperwork a lot easier.”

I am of the belief that you should never talk to law enforcement without an attorney present. That being said, if they really did already have the security footage, and would let me watch it, then at least I could figure out what the fuck had actually happened.

“Alright, I’ll come along, but I want to call my attorney first.”

“That is, of course, your right. We’ll be waiting by the car.”

I closed the door and watched them through my doorbell camera until they backed up and walked back to their car. I half expected them to try and snoop by the door.

I pulled out my phone and hit 1 on the speed dial. It rang only one before someone answered.

“This is the Law Officer of Grady and Khetman, how may I direct your call?”

“India Foxtrot.”

“Please hold.”

The very first day I had bought this phone, Charlie snatched it from my hand and set up the speed dial. He told me that if I ever needed a lawyer then all I had to do was call and give the passphrase. It was code for “I’m fucked”. That had been nearly five years ago. I’d nearly forgotten all about it, but I guess that new point of Intellect was doing a bit of work.

I heard an odd crackle of static, then a long tone before another crackle. I recognized that sound, that was what it sounded like when a line was being routed through encryption.

“This is Khetman. May I ask who is calling?”

“James Rogers.”

“Thank you for calling this evening, Mister Rogers. Might I ask who referred you to our legal services?”

“Charlie Charleston.” Again, I will not provide my friend’s real name.

“I see. We thank you for choosing our services. What is the nature of your troubles?”

“Police interrogation in a few minutes.”

“Your situation?”

I had to think about how best to say it. If these were people that Charlie recommended… Maybe it was best to be direct with them.

“Blacked out. No idea what happened, my vehicle was found at the site of the crime.”

“Very well. Your legal representation will be on their way shortly. Please do not answer any questions until they arrive.”

“Thank you.”

The line went dead. It occured to me that I hadn’t provided him with an address. I suppose they were just that good.

I walked outside.

“Alright officers. Let’s get going.”